Blood was splattered on everything: his clothes, the floor, the walls. He could hear splashing sounds; the police were stepping in the pools of liquid as they carted the other boy—the living one, not the corpse; he could still see it, the lifeless eyes resting on him—away from the room. Someone was trying to coax him out of the corner that he had holed himself up in—Stan? His parents? A policeman?—but he wasn't listening to them. Had he really seen . . . he didn't know what to call it. It seemed like a nightmare. He had never meant . . . He didn't think it would be like . . .

He closed his eyes; he didn't want to think, not anymore. He didn't want to see a pair of empty eyes staring up at him. He didn't want to remember—if he could forget, just for a moment, what had happened, he'd consider himself the luckiest person in the world. It was hard to believe that minutes, mere minutes, before he hadn't even processed what had happened. He was still having trouble understanding it, but thinking about it was so much easier when he was having to look at the problem in the face—and that was what it was, a problem. What else could it be?

His thoughts were racing. His chest was heaving. Was he going into shock? Would someone who was going into shock realize that they were going into shock?

He covered his ears, but it did no good; the thoughts, thoughts that he would probably be having for the rest of his life—because, really, how could something like that happen and you not spend the rest of your life thinking about it?—wouldn't leave him alone.

His stomach began to heave. He felt light headed. He wanted to pass out to get away from the situation, even for just a little while. Relief wouldn't come though, and he did the only thing that he could think to do—he began to cry.

Chapter One

Months Earlier

Kyle had known since he was thirteen that he was gay. At the age of fourteen, he told Stan. His best friend was, naturally, accepting. He told Ike at the age of fifteen, and though his brother ripped on him for it, he knew that the kid didn't care. Next came Wendy, who he didn't actually want to tell but told anyway because he knew she could keep a secret and because it'd help get her off his back about dating Bebe; plus, showing that he trusted her made Stan happy, and after everything that Stan had done for him over the years, making him happy was something that Kyle tried to do. At the age of seventeen, Stan, Ike, and Wendy were still the only people that he had admitted his sexuality to. Kenny also knew, he was sure, because there was little that Kenny didn't know about sexuality. Besides, they had known each other since they were kids, and Kenny was the type of person who observed people well. Surely he would have connected the dots by the time they were juniors in high school? That out of the way, Kyle was fine with his sexual preferences. Self-loathing wasn't something that he enjoyed, so he had absolutely nothing against gay people.

What he did have a problem with was sitting on a couch in front of him.

He was at a party. Kids were getting wasted left and right, Stan had gone off somewhere to make out with Wendy (they had managed to go about two months without breaking up again), Kenny was standing beside him, staring of at something (Red's rack, Kyle thought, but he wasn't going to ask), and, right in front of him . . .

Eric Cartman was making out with Leopold "Butters" Stotch.

It made him sick to look at them, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. They had been dating for about a week—the idea of Cartman dating anyone had been hysterical until it actually happened—but he still couldn't adjust to the sight of them together. It made sense, he supposed. Butters had always cared about the larger boy, God knows why, and who else was going to take Cartman's shit? Still, it had come as quite the shock to everyone at their lunch table—minus Kenny, who had let on like he had seen it coming a mile off (which he probably had)—when Butters sat down one day, kissed Cartman's chubby cheek, and offered him his pudding. Kyle could remember making a crack about Cartman not needing anymore pudding—the sight of Butters kissing Cartman's cheek was a rare but not completely unfamiliar one so it didn't stun him like it did most of the other kids at their table—but the older boy had ignored him for the most part (he had still told him to shut his "fucking Jew mouth"), instead choosing to wrap an arm around the blond boy and take him up on his offer of chocolate pudding.

Kyle hadn't liked being ignored. He had always thought that if the fatass ever left him alone, he'd be happy, but . . .

He was worried for Butters. That had to be it. He knew that Cartman would hurt him—the blond was fragile and Cartman was as much of a sociopath has he had been when they were kids—and he didn't want that to happen.

That didn't explain why he got the urge to hit Butters in the face every time he saw them together though.

"You'll wear your teeth out if you keep gritting them."

Kenny had apparently stopped staring long enough to notice him staring. He hadn't even realized that he was gritting his teeth until the poorer boy said something. The surprise did nothing to lessen his irritation though; Kenny had his hood up—some things never change no matter how much time goes by—but he could tell by the tone of voice he had used that he was smirking. Bastard. Knowing that it would only amuse him more and not caring, Kyle rolled his eyes.

"I don't get why they have to do that out in the open. No one needs to see that fatass kiss anybody."

Kenny made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat but chose not to say anything—for the time being. Kyle knew that it was only a matter of time before the boy made another smartassed—or perverted—comment. He decided to enjoy the silence while it lasted.

"You're jealous."

'Well, Kyle mused, 'that lasted long. I'm surprised—'

Kenny's accusation caught up to him before he could finish his thought. Him? Jealous? Butters was blond, which he didn't mind, but he also didn't prefer. Besides the color, the cut of his hair was unappealing; it reminded him of a star, which reminded him of his religion. Who wants to date a boy that reminds you of your religion when dating a boy is against your religion? Butters had nice eyes, but Kyle had always preferred brown eyes to blue, just like he had always preferred darker hair over blond hair. The boy was skinner than him, which was a turn off; Kyle had no intentions of behaving like the girl in a relationship (assuming he ever got one), but if he was going to date a boy, he wanted to actually date a boy and not a feminine stick. The blond also had horrible taste in clothing—a Hello Kitty shirt? Seriously?—and he was pretty sure that the kid used some type of perfume; again, if Kyle was going to be gay, he wanted an actual boy. That lead Kyle to the biggest issue—Butters was a pussy. It was crude and a bit harsh, but it was true. If Kyle was going to be interested in someone, they couldn't behave like a baby. He wanted someone that wasn't going to back out if things got tough, someone that had charisma, someone that had spirit. He hated to admit it, but he wanted someone that he could argue with.

Butters wasn't his type at all.

"Why would I want Butters, dude? Cartman probably just wants to fuck him because of the color of his eyes and hair."

Surely enough, Cartman was running his plump fingers through yellow strands of hair. Butters seemed to be enjoying the attention. He was on Cartman's lap, his arms around broad shoulders. His face was pressed against Cartman's neck, and even though Kyle couldn't see it, he would bet money that the lithe boy had a blush on his face; Butters, though always eager to accept affection, seemed to get flustered by it easily if he was on the receiving end. Kyle could also imagine what the boy was saying—"Oh Eric." Butters would be saying it quietly, but his need would be evident in his voice. Cartman, who had always had a thing for control, would be getting off on it. Pretty soon, they would probably find a room to go off to. (It seemed early considering they had only been dating or about a week, but it had always been obvious that Butters had a crush on Cartman, and there was no way that the larger boy would pass up free sex. How often would he get the chance to?) Kyle felt sick thinking about it. This time, at least, he realized that he was gritting his teeth.

"I'm not talking about Butters."

Just like that, Kenny was gone, presumably to ask Red for a dance. Kyle could hear him laughing all the way across the room and again, it took a minute for his words to sink in.

'Jealous? He thinks I want Cartman?'

Normally, he would laugh at such things. Since it came from Kenny though—Kenny who had known him for as long as he could remember, Kenny who was so good at observing people—he thought about what his friend said instead of just laughing it off.

'Brown eyes and hair . . . larger than me . . . argues. . .'

Sometimes, Kyle decided, he hated his life. Maybe he would become one of those self-hating fags after all. It wasn't until an hour later that he realized yes, Kenny did know about his sexual preference. He was too stunned about a different epiphany to care.